Exploring the conversation around music
How musicians converse while playing and the lessons we can extract from the way we communicate through playing, listening and dancing to music.
I don’t about you, but I’ve been addicted to Spotify recently. I’m loving the playlists that are proposed, and the opportunity to signal to Spotify the music that I love by clicking on the heart. I get to listen to the songs that have come by way of being shazamed. And there are playlists by some of my melomaniac friends. I also have great enjoyment (and not a little pride) out of the >100 GB of live Grateful Dead shows that I’ve scraped together over the years on my hard drive, with most of the shows I’ve attended, too! That’s literally weeks of different Dead tunes without a break. While I’ve always looked quizzically if not sceptically at people who pay too much attention to outwards signs of beauty, I do appreciate beauty, especially when it’s inside-out. In this sense, music is one of the most entertaining, rewarding and joyful activities in which I may participate in, listen to, watch and/or dance to. It’s important for my state of mental health to insert music into my day, every day. I recommend the same for you!
There is something magical about music. In some instances, it is any combination of ethereal, transformative and engrossing. Arthur Schopenhauer said that music is the most exquisite form of art because it’s not just an interpretation of truth, it is a ‘direct manifestation’ of it.
The same opinion can be found throughout history, far preceding Schopenhauer. Both Aristotle and Plato wrote about the power of music and its ability to affect emotions. In a sentiment I completely share, Friedrich Nietzsche wrote that "Without music, life would be a mistake." For me, the beauty in music is that it is so complete. It has poetry, rhythm, harmony, community and movement. In a thought experiment I ran several decades ago, I founded a tongue-in-cheek tribe whose philosophy was born out of 19 unsolved precepts, one of which was to answer the following mystery: why is that everytime I ask someone if they like music, they reply in the affirmative (albeit with varying degrees and taste)? My answer: because we are all made of energy and the music vibrates with the quantic strings that make up our very smallest particles.
"Music is the purest form of art, and therefore the most direct expression of beauty, with a form and spirit which is one, and simple, and least encumbered with anything extraneous. We seem to feel that the manifestation of the infinite in the finite forms of creation is music itself, silent and visible.”
-Rabindranath Tagore[i]
On a provable level, music resonates within our brain. As Daniel Levittin described in his book, This is your brain on music, the different ways we interact with music can fire up varying parts of the brain. Whether you are playing music, listening to it, dancing, or watching music being performed, our neurons get activated. That neural activity is enlivening.
As someone who was brought up with two parents who had great singing voices, it was only natural that I started singing, too. At the age of eight, I joined the Old Malthouse School’s choir. I have part angelic, part impish memories of singing in the boys’ choir down at the small St George’s Church in Langton Matravers, Dorset that has remains dating back to 1290. [ii] Would I or wouldn’t get the descant role? I still recall the uplifting effect of singing together within the hallowed stone structure of that church. When I moved on to Eton, I joined the school’s musical society. I remember, as if it were yesterday, performing the Carmina Burana by Carl Orff, and how we all had muzzled grins thinking of the revelling monks. I recall the excitement of singing for the first time with a girls’ choir, extracts of Verdi’s Aida. I also have such fond souvenirs of rehearsing and singing in several musicals, including Oh What A Lovely War! and Kiss Me Kate. At the age of 16, in awe of a boy a couple of years older, I picked up an acoustic guitar for the first time and I’m still playing today, 42+ years on. Along the way, I had the chance to play at numerous campfires, several coffee shops and even on a couple of stages, as a member of a band. To call me a qualified musician, however, would be overstating my case. I am meanwhile a bona fide fan of music. I would qualify as a melomaniac. In my lifespan, I have thus far attended an estimated 800 concerts, ranging from opera and classical, to jazz, folk, reggae, funk, blues, plain rock’n’roll, and of course a great deal of psychedelic rock.
Music as a bond
In this manner, I have been able to participate in and observe many different types of communities that form around music. In one’s youth, it’s clear that the music you listen to participates in defining you. You let the music talk for you. You start to be able to put a name to your feelings through the songs, or perhaps just a specific lyric. You bond with others in a more soulful way. You become discerning, at least within a genre of music, about what you do and don’t like.
In the main, my experience with -- and understanding of -- music is largely limited to the standard of western music, involving 12 tones and 7 notes, octaves, treble and bass clef, and a style of notation that makes music so easy to share. However, I’m quite sure that much of what I have to say, corresponds to the other musical traditions, such as you’ll find in India, China and Africa. Whether it’s the guitar, piano, violin (fiddle) or flute, there’s so much flexibility and potential within the confines of the traditional musical framework. The variety of music is magical in itself. And working within the constructs and constraints is brilliant for our creativity.
As you know, in this Dialogos, I have been keen to explore many different types of conversations. I’ve invited guests to write about their experiences using conversation in all manner of situations, with different expertises, constraints and contexts. This is because I am acutely aware that conversations happen at many different levels. Even when it comes to discussion between two people, there is much being relayed through tone, body language, and the gaps between the words. Does language impose itself on culture or is it merely the reflection of a culture? Having been a lifetime student of many languages, I’ve also enjoyed the interplay between languages, and finding ways to communicate despite having only a reduced vocabulary and a weaker grasp of the grammar in many of the languages I practice. The route to and opportunity for miscommunication and misunderstanding seems infinite. In music, there are almost universal codes, but as George Bernard Shaw said in an 1890 review: “Though music be a universal language, it is spoken with all sorts of accents.” If music isn’t a language per se, it communicates, especially at an emotional level. I’d like to recount a few musical conversations I have enjoyed in my life.
Connecting through music
Among the many wonderful memories where music played a capital role, I remember as an 18-year-old, a very specific moment when I was hanging out with other members of the cast and we were singing together. Then we put on some music and got to giving one another backrubs. Sitting astride my friend, Angela, all of sudden the song, Bad Moon Rising by Creedence Clearwater came on. We both started singing. And then the two of us broke off and simultaneously started giggling in sublime synchronicity. I’m sure that Angela still remembers that moment. Music connects.
Conversations between musicians
I would like first to zone in on the exquisite nature of playing music with someone else. As much as I enjoy playing by myself, and of course over the years that’s been the much more likely scenario, the moments spent playing or singing with someone else are inevitably far more invigorating. As is my wont in many of the hobbies and activities I have dabbled in, I have tended to prefer experimenting and trying out a variety of songs and genres, as opposed to sticking to one genre and/or one specific playlist. As a result, I have never gotten very good at it. But this hasn’t stopped me from wanting to join in with others. I have fond souvenirs of singing a duet with Joanne at Hotchkiss, playing in the living room with my long-time friend, Ted Gauld, singing with the Hoover and the Losers in the Poconos, playing with Jonny and Nicolas at INSEAD, as well as many of my musical chums at the FIJI fraternity at Colgate. Latterly, I enjoyed jamming with my spunky (and much more talented) friend, Bob Bejan.
Music brings people together. When vibrating at the same wavelength, people experience a communion of body and spirit. Music allows us to unite without the need even to talk. So, when people exchange words with the music in the background, those words are transported and take on an additional dimension. Music can also complement meaning. Words said over music can have deeper meaning because of the emotions carried by music.
- Nicolas Gaudreau, my musical friend from INSEAD
A tango for two
When playing a duet, there is an unspoken exchange as each sizes up the other, less in a competitive mode, and more in your desire for better complicity. Most of the time, these duets were comprised of two guitarists who both sang. and as such, there is quite a lot to meld together. What is your repertoire? What’s your voice’s range? How well do you remember the lyrics? How well do you know how to play the song? Do you know the riffs? Are you more structured or improvisational? It has been my experience that all these questions are answered as you play. That initial tango, if not tangle, is as complex as it is exciting. The exchanges happen at many different levels. For example, there is the search for a common song. Once that’s been found, there may be a need to identify roles. The majority of the time, though, those roles are adopted on the fly. According to the voices, and of course the song, you will look to find a harmony. If and when there is a moment for a solo or some kind of jam, there is typically a give-and-take. These are communicated through a nod of the head or a lifting of the eyebrows accompanied more often than not with a little smile. These exquisite little exchanges form a conversation that is at once beguiling and effective. Depending on the nature of the coordination and synchronicity, then comes the conclusion of the song. In the best of cases, I can recall experiencing a form of euphoria. Of course, most of the time, to the extent I am entirely amateur, I can hardly claim to have performed well. Yet, I know that some kind of bond has happened. These are dear moments, and they’ve had a lasting effect on me.
A room full of voices
A second type of experience that is truly powerful is when you participate in a choir or larger chorale. Here there is beauty in the unison. It is majestic to be in the midst of a group of passionate singers, divided up into our parts, where everybody is essentially a pawn in a larger piece. Taking your cue from the conductor, reading your partition and listening intently to the various voices around you is a holy intoxicating experience. Unlike the majority of my guitar playing, which has been mostly in small gatherings – and more recently in my living room – singing in the choir inevitably involves rehearsals. As such you build a community. In rehearsals, you start to see familiar faces and build rapport. And then, in the singing, as the conductor leads and incisively improves us, we all strive to fall in line. When it comes to the performance itself, we’re all in full dress and “the show must go on,” no matter what. There is a buzz and excitement as the adrenaline kicks in before you enter onstage. And all of sudden, after an initial welcome, we launch ourselves. Throughout, we are always listening to one another. We’re feeling one another through the vibrations of the music and a sense of oneness. At the end, there is relief and applause; and when it goes well, a certain feeling of giddiness. The sense of community is profound.
The Grateful Way
As I mentioned above, I’m a “Deadhead” who’s seen the Grateful Dead and its various offshoots (Further, The Other Ones, Jerry Garcia Band, Dead & Co.,…) around a couple of hundred of times. One of the remarkable elements of how the Dead play (they’re on their very last tour this summer) was shaped by the fact that none of the initial band members came from the same musical heritage.
Jerry Garcia – bluegrass
Bob Weir – rock‘n’roll
“Pigpen” McKernan – R&B
Phil Lesh – classical music
Bill Kreutzmann – jazz
Mickey Hart – polyrhythmic and exotic percussion instruments.
As a result, they were never able to rely on a common musical convention. When they played, they were always prepared to experiment together. Especially when they would go off on long tangents (“jams”), the key to their unity and the magic of their sound came from listening to one another play. Phil Lesh said in an interview on Deadvids, “That’s how the Grateful Dead evolved as they did. It was because everybody listened really hard to each other. It’s the only way to go. You had to listen.”[iii] And, if there’s one thing that is desperately important in any conversation is our ability to listen, without it being about when you plan to interrupt the flow but contribute to it. On top of having a repertoire of 450 songs, The Grateful Dead liked to play every song differently every time they played it. The net result was always unique. As we like to say, when you go see a Dead show, it’s not a concert, it’s an experience.
Communication within the audience
There are two more types of conversations happening during the Dead show. As one of many Deadheads in the audience, I would find myself melding in, dancing and swirling by myself, with a friend or even a perfect stranger. The exchanges are entirely non-verbal but charged in emotion as we exult in experiment happening on stage. Wherever the band goes, we follow them down each rabbit hole. Then comes the moment when the band starts to consider the next song, well before the end of the song they’re currently playing. One or other band member starts to make suggestions through his instrument. Another member will perhaps try hinting at an altogether different song. In the audience we are attuned to these micro-hints and the musical tussle happening live. We start imagining where the song is going and start putting an accent into our movements to welcome the new song. It’s subtle. And when they screw up, we indulge them. For example, they might forget the lyrics or play a false chord. When you experiment, you need to accept that you may fail. That’s part of the contract. And if you don’t push the boundaries, you may stay safe, but you’ll not learn as much.
Between band and audience
The conversation between the fans and the band is almost tangible. When Jerry (now John Mayer) would take off with some soulful solo and move toward a climax, we would joyously follow and feel the energy. And when they break out together into the next song, it often feels like a resolution. Depending on what you (in the audience) were imagining was going to follow, you smile, either knowingly or out of surprise and you kick into the new gear. So goes the experience, over five hours with a long pause between sets. The band palpably feeds off our energy.
The rest
One of the more powerful elements of music is the rest. As Levittin pointed out, when there is a pause in the music, the brain’s neurons fire up, in anticipation of where the music will take us next. In our infobese world where we are bombarded with communications and are constantly filling up time with activity (do do do), there is little time for a pause (just being). As a London-based priest reportedly said in a homily, “life is about the dash: the dash in between the year of birth and the year of our death.” Is it a mad dash? Or a dash of spice? And, when you come to your last resting place, how meaningful will the dash be on your tombstone?
Our life happens in the dash between the years of your birth and your death.
Music heals
There is so much more one could write about when it comes to conversation between performing musicians. One thing is certain is that music can heal, too. There is pathos and solace, there is energy and mystery, there is abandon and inclusion. I think especially of the work being done by musical therapists, such as the awesome Jennifer Buchanan. I could write an entire piece on pure improvisation. And then there are the ways bands include guests, bringing new influences and sounds and offering new forms of exploration and experimentation. Music is a versatile form of communication that allows for invisible expression and meaningful encounters.
In the way many of our conversations happen these days, it’s painfully clear that there’s little time for listening. We’re all in a mad rush to get in our talking points. We’ve all got so much to say and little bandwidth for listening. It’s as if we’re starving to be heard. Think to add some rests into your conversations. Pause. Listen. Observe. The rest will come.
Music is one of the most entertaining, rewarding and joyful activities in which I may participate in, listen to, watch and/or dance to. It’s important for my state of mental health to insert music into my day, every day. I recommend the same for you!
[i] https://musicandtraditions.org/blog/2015/10/25/music-is-the-purest-form-of-art
[ii] https://web.archive.org/web/20030810130805/http://members.iinet.net.au/~suegar/langton.htm
[iii] Long Strange Trip, Amir Bar-Lev, dir. (Sikelia Productions, 2017) [film]